My No Reason
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: J.D. doesn't have a reason for the way he is, it's just how he's always been. Some JDox friendship and angstiness, mentions of cutting and suicidal thoughts. Oneshot.


**A/N: Sorry for the hiatus on my fics guys but I'm busying myself with writing a choose your own adventure book and also doing my heaps of summer homework lately. Maybe sometime in August I'll be back full time but this popped into my head so, here ya go. (Scrubs is my new crack)**

**Disclaimer: Scrubs belongs to Bill Lawrence, the genius. Not me, the average teenaged girl.**

_There ain't no reason things are this way.  
>It's how they always been and they intend to stay.<br>I can't explain why we live this way, we do it every day…_

My No Reason

There are so many people in this world who couldn't commit suicide.

I don't mean that they aren't physically incapable, though there are plenty of those to go around too. No, I mean that they aren't mentally capable. Psychologically, they will always find a reason not to do it in the end. They'll be on the edge of that cliff and remember that they never phoned their friend back and, well, they should do that shouldn't they? And while they are their heart stops pounding ad they think that maybe, just maybe, life is worth living.

The truth is, most people just say they're going to kill themselves for the drama. Even if they don't tell anyone, it spices their own private lives up just enough so that later they can say to their buddy, "Did you know I was suicidal once? No really I was totally going to do it!"

I'm not one of those people.

I could walk right off of that cliff without a second thought, except maybe satisfaction that I'd finally done something about my pathetic existence. I wouldn't be trying desperately to grab onto the nonexistent branches or ledges on the Cliffside as I plummeted because I'd remembered only after I jumped that I really didn't want to do this. I'd be happy.

I could just end it all in one big jump.

Sometimes when I'm tilting my head and staring off into space, while everyone thinks I'm daydreaming some kooky scenario in my head, I'm thinking of the different ways that I could do it. I have no doubt that I could do every one of them without a hitch.

Drowning was something I'd considered many times, simply because I live in California. For God's sake, I live right next to the ocean. How easy would it be for me to strap some weights to my limbs and just sink? Too easy. It wouldn't even take long. The human body can't survive more than a few minutes without oxygen, at least not without severe brain damage. I should know, I'm a doctor.

It's kind of ironic, isn't it, that I go around saving lives all day while I think of how I could end my own? Unhealthy. I'm glad that Molly isn't around to diagnose me with some kind of depression. She'd be the first to catch on. I suppose I'm glad that I have clueless friends. Carla and Turk are too wrapped up in each other and their marital issues to pay attention to me; Elliot has a new boyfriend and a new job, so I won't be seeing much of her. And I don't think I can count Dr. Cox as a friend the majority of the time anyways, but especially not now with Jack and his dysfunctional happy-family game with Jordan.

That's not fair. I know they care about me, especially Dr. Cox. He's the last person to ever admit that sort of thing but I know that it's there. I'm his protégé whether he likes it or not. I like to think that the rants that I get pretty much daily, and all of the girl's names, they're just his way of showing me that he cares.

The still sting. I can't help that I'm sensitive. I always have been, ask Turk. I'm girly. And nerdy. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Every morning a half a bottle of mousse goes into my hair, not to mention the cologne. That's after my shower, which consists of at least three types of hair product and a twice over with my loofa. I smell delicious. And I look like I'm fucking gay.

Which I wonder if I might be, these days. I do chase after everything with a vagina, but then that's expected. I'm a guy. I have needs. I like boobies, for sure. Top notch, those things. But then, am I really ever attracted to the women I date beyond that? No, not really. Elliot maybe, if only because she was my best friend. Was. She's gone now. Leaving me to my sexuality crisis and my undiagnosed depression, which I'm sure Molly and the rest of the world would tell me stems from my big move into my own apartment.

Alone.

I myself can't find a particular reason that I'm so obsessed with killing myself. I guess I'd have to pay somebody to do that for me. Too bad, I have loans to pay off and long hours at the hospital to think about. The smile I plaster on every morning doesn't get there by itself. I have to work for it, and damn if I'm not proud that I can still put it there even when my thoughts are growing darker every day.

I could always hang myself, but that's just too unoriginal. I can picture Turk finding me, barging into my apartment and seeing my lifeless body hanging by a rope. He'd scream, faint. Carla would come up. She'd call Elliot and start the tearfest while Turk refuses to believe that I'm really gone. Eventually Dr. Cox would get word and come rushing over, and he'd be knocked on his ass because I always seemed so damn cheerful and annoying and I'd slipped right under his nose. This time I wouldn't be able to get him out of his slump.

But no, I won't do that. I at least wouldn't go that way. I think that I know which way I'd prefer, anyways, because I'm already halfway there every time I flick open my switchblade.

Funny story, I used to do this in the supply closets with the scalpels at Sacred Heart as an intern. No one ever caught me, not even once, and that's impressive considering how many times I was barged in on in there. It doesn't matter. Those were small cuts. They were tentative.

I was surprised at how easy it was to slip back into my old habits from my first two years of med school. Of course back then I'd been about eighty seven pounds, too, but the anorexia is a story for another day. It's a thing of the past. Of all of my psychological problems, that is the one I'm truly through with.

But back to my cutting habit. Oh yeah, I had it bad. I guess I do again, now, but thinking back I am a little shocked at how much blood I must have lost over the years. I started around fifteen, which I guess isn't surprising. I was not a popular teenager. In fact, I was the nerd who was kicked down a notch every day by the quarterback. And being the sensitive guy that I am, well, I took it to heart.

And then form my heart to my pocketknife, and from there to my wrist.

Dad never asked me why I only ever wore long sleeved shirts the last few years I lived with him, and I never offered up the information. I may have needed someone to talk to but I had enough sense to know that it wasn't my dad. Somehow in college somebody found out about it, and I was approached by a counselor who helped me through a few of my problems. I liked that woman, and she really did help me. Just not enough.

I stopped for a couple of years, but then I was back to the knife in med school. It's a vicious cycle. After my days as an intern I quit for a few months too, but I went back faster that time and I haven't gone a day without at least a tiny scratch since.

No one ever asks why I only wear long sleeved shirts under my scrubs, either. And when I wear t-shirts, I'm extra careful not to turn over my arms and expose my pale wrists, covered with cuts in varying sizes and depths and stages of healing.

Sometimes I make a game out of it. I'll run it over my wrist once for each time that Dr. Cox has ranted at me that day, or one for every girl's name. Once I carved one into my skin. You might still be able to see the faint outline of "Carol" against the backdrop of pink and red and white that is the sickening valentine of my arm. It's Dr. Cox's favorite, I think, since he uses it the most.

I think that if-when- I do commit suicide, it's going to be exsanguination. Bleeding out. I could do it so easily, just push a bit harder, go a bit deeper, fid the blue veins under my translucent skin since they're so easy to see and follow them with the cool metal blade. Cut the opposite way, and I could be dead just like that.

Cutting, though, is one of the things I still love to do in life. It helps me sleep at night. It takes the place of crying when my eyes are bloodshot and I just don't want to feel anymore I'm so raw. It's my solace when no one is around to catch me as I fall.

I'm sorry the day that Dr. Cox grabs my arm and realizes I'm wincing more than I should be in his loose grip. I tell him that when he yanks the sleeve up and gazes with dawning horror at the scars of a collective eight years of cutting myself. And yes, I feel the actual emotion well up in me too, the sorrow and the hurt and the apology because I'm making my mentor hurt and I never wanted that, I never ever did-

"Why in God's name- Why, newbie? Just tell me why?"

And I don't know what to say.

I'm so screwed up. I don't know how to explain all the things that are wrong with me in a short sentence. Don't even think I could explain them in a hundred long sentences, because I don't really have words for it, just the cuts to show, the scars on my wrists.

I wonder if he can see "Carol" written there just for him.

I'm crying. When did that happen? I'm sobbing, actually, into his shirt and he's actually holding me there and letting me get his shoulder all wet and snotty as I apologize over and over until the words lose their meaning.

"I'm s-s-s-so, so s-s-s-sorry, Dr. C-C-Cox," I sob, and I can't even really understand myself. I can't believe it's been such a long time and somebody, somebody actually involved in my personal life, he knows. And I have no doubt that in time he's going to know the whole story.

"Shhh, newbie, you're gonna be fine," he murmurs, hesitating before he starts to stroke my hair. I'm so glad we're in an empty room right now because Turk or Carla seeing me like this is the last thing I need right now.

I don't think I'm going to be fine, really, because I can't remember a time when I was

Then again, Dr. Cox cares about me and I have the proof right here. Ben is probably taking spiritual photographs of this twisted, touching moment.

Maybe… I can tell Dr. Cox about being a nerd in high school and then in college, about being the stressed out kid in med school and how he himself turned me back to it again, and about Carol and the cliff jumping and how I could do it and how the ocean is so close I could drown myself in it.

I won't be telling any shrinks about any of it.

"Why, newbie?" he repeats after a while. "Can you tell me that now? Just, please?" His blue eyes are concerned, for ME. I should savor this. I'm just too upset, and I open my mouth before I can think of a reply.

"I've… always been this way."

It's true. I don't have a good reason for being the way I am, from the dead dog in my living room to the mousse in my hair to the scars littering my wrists. All I know is that that's how it's always been, and how I've always been content to be. And I'd been so good at it too, until this very day. Now it was out in the open. I couldn't just ignore that I had something wrong with me now. I couldn't just return to the scalpels in the supply closet whenever I was stressed at work.

"We're going to have to fix you, newbie."

Damn it all.

….

There are a lot of people in the world who won't go through therapy for the life of them, no matter what anybody says. They'll head into that room and then remember that they promised their friend that they'd be somewhere that day and think, you know, maybe I don't need this session after all. I know they recommended it but I'm fine, really. I don't need to be fixed. And they flutter away happy as can be to be screwed up for the rest of their lives.

I'm not one of those people.

My name is J.D. and I haven't cut myself in four months tomorrow.

Carla and Turk never had to find out. I begged Dr. Cox not to tell anyone and for once he did what I asked. I suppose next time I want something I should just cry. That seems to get me what I want.

Then again, it could be that he just didn't want to tell anyone about that rather horrific therapy session that he had to attend with me to talk about the name etched into my wrist and what it meant about his connection to my present mental health. It took four hours, two explosive rants, several crying fits and a hug. My therapist is refusing to be within five feet of Dr. Cox for the rest of his time at Sacred Heart. I don't blame him.

I suppose that I'm glad that my mentor found out about my problem, because despite everything I have closure on one thing now.

There isn't a reason for everything that happens. Sometimes they just do, and in my case they continue to happen, over and over and over until you sometimes forget that it's wrong. If something has always been one way, it's your job to change it if you want it changed.

If you don't, then it's there to stay.


End file.
